Frontal cortex emesis between novels.

Monthly Archives: December 2011

I’ve been forced, kind of, to explain myself a lot lately, which is generally a thing I refuse to do. Since I refuse to do it, I generally fail at all half assed attempts at this endeavour. I’m that kid taking the essay test on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs that begins “Air is essential to all life. I’m now realizing this degree in psychology is not. How you like me now, mothafuckas?!”

No, I never did that. It was too important for me to show how goddamned MUCH I can absorb, then promptly forget. Especially if money was exchanged.

The problem is, I have a few sacred spaces that, once entered, must be reconsecrated with holy water & incense & sea salt & sacrifices of rare lamb or, better yet, raw fish wrapped in vinegar rice & seaweed paper. Then child services must be called.

Because I don’t like to talk about these sacred spaces, and I don’t sign post them, adventurous types just kinda trample all over them. The little holy man inside goes ballistic, screaming at the trespasser even though nobody told the trespasser not to go there. It wasn’t even terribly well sign posted. Well, maybe if you know what to look for.

No harm meant, the little man, who is bald & in a robe & called Brother Tremendous, sighs & says, “Ok, trespasser. Please go in peace. Make sure not to come back.” He then goes through the arduous process of resetting up all the things. He looks, I just realized, like Charlie Brown.

Now, if the trespasser is a Lucy, they’ll come back. Brother Tremendous then fairly loses his mind, and paramedics are called. It’s a mess. I’m not sure what kind of horrible sadist would want to do that to a tiny bald monk.

Point being, I know exactly what I don’t like & refuse to talk about, even if you don’t, but once I tell you “No, we don’t go here. Brother Tremendous will have an apoplectic fit,” the idea is to find something else to discuss.

Here are things I do like:

I will spend hours stroking a cat. Every non-ass surface of a cat is interesting, as I know the specific anatomy underneath their warm fur having cut a few up in the name of science. Their little bones & fluttery little motor organs are of profound interest to me, & I prefer them all covered in warm, lively skin & fur.

All conversation anywhere in the world defers immediately to the most helpless creature in the room. If a child genuinely needs help, or there is a plaintive mew, whimper, or whinny, you could be the Pope President God Emperor of All Things & I’d ignore you completely & ask whatever is sad what’s wrong. THE MOST HELPLESS CREATURE IN THE ROOM IS THE MOST IMPORTANT.

Music, without fail, supersedes all talk. I don’t care if you know I’ve heard the song a bazillion times. Music is more important than talking. So is silence, but I get that normals need to talk sometimes. Also? Your music probably sucks.

Empathy is better than skill. Consider the serial murderer. “I’m awfully good at slicing people up.” Why yes, yes you are. But I don’t want to be sliced on, & if you had even a sliver of empathy, you’d stop. Jerk.

This applies to the folk who are slightly less evil than serial killers, like people who discuss politics on TV. “In my studied opinion, things are this!” One day, if you stop to consider how normal people feel, you might be able to sell what they’re not buying. Or, just, also? Who cares? What is the simplest rule of humanity? People want to be free to live, not told what to do for their own good.

There is nothing more compelling in the world than a man who makes me feel safe. I obey his orders without question. The second I feel unsafe, I am thinking of ways to sabotage his entire operation. I may have put vaseline on all the doorknobs.

Men who fixate on parts/acts are idiots. There’s a whole world of AMAZING STUFF going on right up here, dumb ass. *points to eyes* The key to all this *sweeps hand across body* is all up in here *taps rapidly on the side of my head* and skipping it is like deciding to buy something for yourself rather than receive a gift. In which case, you can go do some other things by yourself.

I LOVE reading & writing under an electric blanket turned up to 11 with a down comforter on top. So do the cats.

When in doubt, empathy empathy empathy. Living in yourself ain’t near so enlightening as living in someone else. I have to remind myself of that one quite a bit some days.